They must find the coat, unless it had been put beyond reach of recovery. When Ellery arrived Joan told him that they were going to lunch together at the Avenue Restaurant opposite Hatton Garden. In a few words she told him what he was to do.
At the Avenue Joan remained at the table they had chosen, while Ellery went to the gentlemen’s cloak room. There was no attendant in the room at the time, and Ellery made a quick survey of the two or three dozen hats and coats which were hanging there. What he was looking for was at any rate not among them. In a few minutes the attendant came in, and Ellery entered into talk.
“Do you get many hats and coats left behind here?” he asked.
“Not many, sir. Sometimes a gentleman leaves a coat or an umbrella; but he generally comes back for it. Gentlemen sometimes leave things when they’re a bit on, sir, if I may put it so without taking a liberty. But not often, sir. Most of the customers here are very regular gents. When things is left we keep them here for a week or two and then we send them to the Lost Property Office. Have you lost something, sir?”
“No, but a friend of mine thinks he left a coat and opera hat here a week or so ago. Have you found anything of the sort?”
“Yes, I have,” said the porter. “And what’s more, I’m damned, sir—begging your pardon, sir, if I could make it out at all. Gentlemen don’t usually walk about in opera hats at lunch time, or go away leaving their hats behind. But this lot was left at lunchtime. I know that, sir, because it weren’t here in the morning, and I noticed it after lunch.”
“Perhaps it had my friend’s name in it.”
“No, sir, that it hadn’t. I searched that coat, and not a name nor a scrap of paper was there on it. A pair of gloves and a few coppers was all it had in it.”
“Wasn’t there a name in the hat either?”
“No, there wasn’t, or we would probably have found the owner by now.”
“Well,” said Ellery. “I’m going to take you into my confidence. I believe that coat and hat did belong to my friend, and I want you to let me have a look at them. The matter is more important than it sounds, for if it is the coat I think it may be the clue to the discovery of a murderer.”
“Lord, sir, you don’t say so.” The attendant’s face brightened, and a new sense of importance came into his manner. “Lord, a real murderer.” He rubbed his hands. Then he said, remembering that he had no idea who Ellery might be. “In that case, sir, oughtn’t we to send for the police?”
“All in good time,” said Ellery; “but before we do that you must let me see the coat and hat and find out if I am right. It wouldn’t do to bring the police here on a wild goose chase. I don’t want to take them away; but you must keep them safe and not give them up to anyone until the police come.”
The porter thereupon brought out the coat and hat. The coat was undoubtedly George Brooklyn’s, or own fellow to his, and to make the proof complete there was a button missing, and the remaining buttons were the same as that which Joan had found in the handbag in Carter Woodman’s office. Ellery turned to examine the hat. There was no name in it, but in the crown there was evidence no less valuable. At some time the adhesive gold initials which hatters use had been fastened inside. These had been removed, or fallen out; but their removal had left the spaces which they had covered cleaner than the rest of the white silk lining. The initials “G. B.” stood out, not as plainly as if the gold letters had remained, but quite unmistakably when the lining was carefully examined. There could be no doubt that Joan’s sagacity had resulted in bringing to light George Brooklyn’s hat and coat, or that they had been left in a place which Woodman had visited on the day following the murder. Their theory that Woodman had masqueraded as George Brooklyn was confirmed, and the new evidence served to connect him, more closely than any previous discovery, with the murders at Liskeard House.
Ellery drew Woodman’s photograph from his pocket. “Have you ever seen this gentleman?” he asked. But the porter did not remember. He might have, or he might not. So many gentlemen came to the Avenue, and he was not continuously in the cloak room. The lady at the cash desk would be more likely to remember. She was a rare one for faces.
Cautioning the man to take the greatest care of the hat and coat until the police came, Ellery rejoined Joan in the restaurant upstairs and told her of his success. They determined to see the manager, and take further precautions against the disappearance of George Brooklyn’s clothes. Joan had selected a table in an alcove, at which it was possible to talk quietly without being overheard, and, through the head waiter, Ellery got the manager to come and join them there. They told him, in confidence, the greater part of the story, names and all, except that they did not give Carter Woodman’s name. The manager promised that the coat and hat should be kept safely, and given up only to the police. He then sent for the cashier, to whom Woodman’s photograph was shown; but she did not remember his face, and was inclined to
